We're All Ants in this Big Big World
by poopoopops
Summary: Quinn works in the NYPD Narcotics Division. Santana is a small-time drug-dealer.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee.**

* * *

Quinn gazed longingly out at the window as her new partner, Sam, rambled on about the new case that had just fallen into their hands.

It was a cool day out and it would have been a great day for patrolling the streets if she had still been a beat cop. But she wasn't, and hadn't been for the past three years.

"So let me get this straight. We know this drug operation is run by this big fella called Rick Nelson. We know that he rents out apartments so he can stash, bag and sell cocaine. We also know that Nelson and his team takes at least a hundred cocaine orders a day." Sam paused just long enough for Quinn to nod her agreement. Her face showed a hint of a smile, not because her partner was amusing when he was agitated, but because she could see where he was going with this.

Sam was fairly new, fresh out of the Academy. He would be the typical All-American boy - blonde, fair and hunky – if not for his exceptionally large lips. That sometimes amused her as well.

"So despite knowing all of that," his arms drew a big circle in the air for emphasis, "there's still no way we can just go in and storm the place?"

With that teeny smile still on her face, Quinn shook her head wryly. The explosion was about to come.

"And why the hell not!"

And why the hell not? That was a question she asked herself everyday. If it were up to her and if she were five years less experienced, she would do exactly what Sam had proposed. But there were systems and rules in place, and they were there for a reason, as much of a pain as they could be. It was her duty to teach Sam that.

"Sure we can do that."

Sam's expression morphed from outrage to surprise. It was clear he had not been expecting that answer. "We can?"

"Of course we can." She repeated with a nod. "If we know the addresses of all of Nelson's apartments."

"Oh."

"And if we have a warrant."

Sam's face lit up. "So we can just get a warrant, storm the place, find the stash, arrest Nelson and interrogate him for the locations of the other apartments!"

That wasn't a bad idea except…

"Why would Nelson store the drugs in his own apartment?"

Sam deflated. "Darn. I didn't consider that."

"He wouldn't, which means we wouldn't be able to charge him. And the moment he knows we're on his tail, he's going to flee."

"So what do we do now?

"We find someone who would be able to sniff around and get us the locations; an actual place we can actually storm into and find something."

She saw the light bulb go off. "Are you thinking of using a snitch?"

"Yep." She popped a piece of gum into her mouth, then rose from her chair. "Not sure my snitch is going to like being called that though."

"Wha.. We're going right now?"

"Yeah. There's no better time than the present." Quinn shrugged then started walking, knowing her partner would follow.

"But.. But.."

"You're driving."

She knew throwing in that bone would shut him up. She didn't need to turn around to know Sam's eyes had widened into saucers and his jaw had slackened. After all, he had been wanting to drive her car for months now and like she said, there was no better time than the present. That and she would be needing something to pacify him once they reached their destination.

* * *

"You can't expect me to just stay here while you head out alone? Someone might just jump you! This isn't just any place. This is Washington Heights!" Sam protested.

As Quinn had expected, her partner hadn't been too happy about letting her out of the car alone. She glanced at her watch and sighed. This pointless argument had been going on for two and a half minutes now.

"I can handle myself Sam."

"Yeah, but.. but.. Why can't you just call that snitch of yours? She can meet us out here. It's safer!"

Quinn wanted to rub Sam over the head for his concern. She also wanted to strangle him for the naïve (some would say stupid) comment.

She settled for an amused laugh. "You do know a snitch is somewhat like a double agent right?"

Sam's blank expression told her he didn't understand what she was trying to say. She sighed. "We're sitting in a police cruiser." When that vacant look stayed in place, she rolled her eyes. "Oh for Christ's sake. She'll get made and killed before we can even start work."

Finally, the haze cleared and an embarrassed flush encompassed Sam's fair face. "Oh. Sorry."

Quinn rolled her eyes again, this time at herself for actually allowing herself to feel bad. "No, it's fine. Just.. just stay in the car ok?"

But of course, if there was anything she had learned about Sam over the past three months, it was that he was as stubborn as a mule.

"But.. but Quinn, I've heard stories of how snitches have stabbed their handlers in the back. Literally! Why don't you call your snitch and arrange for a meet-up? I mean.. I don't have to be there if you don't want me to, but at least it'll be some place safer."

She reminded herself that Sam wasn't trying to be deliberately annoying. He was just concerned and she didn't want to push him away. So she played nice. "She's not exactly trustworthy when it comes to meet-ups."

And maybe that wasn't the best thing to say because Sam panicked again and looked horrified. "Maybe we shouldn't approach her then."

Quinn couldn't help but laugh again at his expression. "Let's just say she's all bark but not bite."

But then, she remembered the time Santana had actually attempted to hit her, "Well, maybe she's a little bit of both but I can handle her. Besides, we'll need her."

When Sam scowled, obviously still displeased with her plan, she smiled and patted him fondly on the cheek, "You're a good partner but there's nothing to worry about."

"Tell me that the next time I ask you to stay in the car while I confront danger alone."

Like that would ever happen. Besides, "Santana isn't dangerous. She just doesn't like the police."

Sam scoffed and turned up his nose, "I wonder why. She doesn't have to know I'm with the force."

"Oh Sam, Santana would make you in a heartbeat. You look like a cop, you walk like a cop, you dress like a cop." And she would eat you alive. That last bit she decided to keep to herself.

He finally conceded. "Oh right fine, fine, fine. You win." As usual. "Good luck and be careful! Call me if you need me!"

Finally, Quinn thought as she stepped out of the car. Sam could be a pain but he was a good guy. She allowed herself a long stretch and took the time to orientate herself. She hardly ever came here anymore, and when she did, she tended to get lost. Hopefully, her trip today would be a smooth one. She offered Sam a wink, tucked her hands into her pockets and started walking.

The road turned into a narrow street. The street branched out into alleys that led to more alleys. As always, she was surprised at how people didn't get lost in the maze, especially in their drugged-up states. She was getting ready to admit defeat and call Santana for a meet-up when she heard a familiar voice. She smiled and started off in the direction.

Based on the voices, it seemed her snitch wasn't just hostile towards the police. It really was a wonder how Santana even managed to get customers. Or maybe not, she found herself reconsidering when she peeked around the brick wall. That girl was gorgeous, even when she was scowling. Or maybe, it was because she looked her best when she was scowling that she was always scowling.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again. I don't deal to hardcore addicts so scram," Santana snarled.

"I really need.."

Based on what Quinn could see, the customer was a boy who could not have been over fifteen. He was dressed shabbily, his long greasy hair stuffed under an oversized baseball cap. He was constantly running the side of his finger across his nose, sniffing as he rubbed.

"No Eric, you don't. What you need is a rehab centre. Listen kid, do yourself a favour and get cleaned up," she stopped, took a dramatic whiff and scrunched her nose in disgust, "In all sense of the word. Now stop wasting my time and get."

"I have money…" the boy whined, tugging out an impressive handful of crumpled notes from his pocket, all but shoving them into Santana's face.

Quinn briefly wondered whose money he stole – his family? A girlfriend? A random passerby he'd pick-pocketed from the streets?

Apparently, Santana thought the same when she grabbed the boy's offending wrist with one hand and ripped the money out of his hands with the other, "Did you take this from your mum?"

"Just one bag. Please?" he begged.

He looked so pathetic and desperate that Quinn was tempted to applaud when Santana merely sneered and pocketed the money, "I'll return this to her."

"No!" he launched, fists raised and teeth bared, but soon found himself pinned to the wall, his arm pulled painfully behind his back. Quinn would have been impressed by the girl's speed if she hadn't already witnessed it two years ago, when they had first met.

"I can break your arm right now, but I don't want to upset your mum. And we both know you don't have the money to fix the bone. So here's what's going to happen. Stop moving," Santana ordered, pushing her forearm firmly against the boy's neck when he squirmed, "When I let go, you're going straight home because nobody and I repeat, nobody in this area is going to sell you shit."

He mumbled something that sounded like "bitch" to Quinn, something that was affirmed a few seconds later when Santana laughed, "Yes, I am and you better remember it. Now scram." Her voice had taken a dangerous edge.

When she released Eric, he took a furtive glance at her face and did as he was told.

"Fucking idiot. At least he was smart enough to cut his loss then," Santana muttered to herself, dusting off imaginary filth from her clothes.

Quinn waited till the sound of the boy's footsteps had faded before she stepped out of the shadows, "That was entertaining, though I thought it was a little hypocritical, don't you think?"

When Santana jumped at her voice, Quinn smirked. It had been a while since she had worked the streets and it was good to know she still had the stealth that got her so many nabs in her early days.

"Shit," Santana groused, with a hand to her heart, "Don't be a freak. Can't you appear like a normal person?"

"So you would hear me and take off? Yeah that would be smart," Quinn remarked, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall.

Santana scoffed, "I've no time to play games with you. Are you lost? Your part of town is ten streets away and somewhere air-conditioned so scat. I have business here."

Quinn smiled, all bright eyes and white teeth, "Have you forgotten I'm a narcotics officer? Your business is my business." After a beat, she felt the need to ask, "And how do you keep your customers with that attitude?"

"Why the hell would I tell you my trade secrets?" Santana shot back, "And what do you want Fabray?"

"That's Detective Fabray to you."

"Whatever." She took a quick look at her watch and with obvious reluctance, gave Quinn her full attention. "Speak. I'll give you five minutes."

Quinn rolled her eyes at the abrasive treatment, "I would call you but you never…"

"Hang on," Santana held a finger up, her eyes darting to some place behind Quinn's shoulder "I heard you got a new boy toy."

"How did you.." Oh who was she kidding? Santana was her snitch for a reason.

"Where is he?"

"He's in the car," Quinn replied shortly, anxious to make full use of her five minutes. She knew exactly how much of a scrooge Santana could be when it came to time.

"Holy shiii… Are you insane? Do you want to get me killed?" Santana raced her fingers through her dark hair, rushing to the alley entrance to peer out left and right.

"Am I stupid? He's parked a few blocks away from here. _And_ no one tailed me. I'm sure of it," Quinn forestalled her question when she saw her snitch open her mouth.

When Santana continued to look like she was going to have a heart attack, Quinn rolled her eyes again, "Chill out! I'm sure of it. Besides, like you once said before, I don't look like a cop. No one is going to make me. Now, can I talk already?" she snapped, impatience starting to seep through.

Still wary, Santana nodded tersely and Quinn decided to cut straight to the chase.

"Have you heard of Ricky Nelson?"

There was a drawn out moment, whereby Santana continued to study her, watchful and wary, "Maybe," she finally answered, shrugging her shoulders noncommittally. But they both knew the long time she had taken to answer the question was a dead giveaway.

"He owns a couple of apartments around the Washington Heights area. You live around there, don't you?"

"Doesn't mean I know him."

"Well, something tells me you do. Even if you don't, that doesn't matter. I've got a job for you."

"I'm not interested."

"I'm not offering it as an option."

Quinn was ready for the anger - the steely glint in Santana's eyes; the hard set of her jaw; the way her body went rigid. What Quinn had not been prepared for was the hint of fear that flickered in the brunette's eyes.

She hid it well and if it were anybody else, it would probably have gone undetected. But Quinn had been a cop for a long enough time to recognise fear for what it was, no matter how small the dosage.

"What are you afraid of?" she asked, curious.

As far as she knew, Santana prided herself on being fearless. She was daring, stubborn and plucky as hell, a trait that was by no means diminished by her big mouth and her equally big ego. So, it was no surprise when Santana's immediate response to that was an indignant "I'm not afraid."

Quinn merely gave the brunette her best intimidating stare. She hadn't been sure of its effect but when Santana squirmed, she knew she had won.

"Ricky is –" Santana bit her lip, struggling to find the right word to use, " – dangerous or rather, he's not but his connections are."

"Do you have a name?" Quinn reached into her pocket for her pen and notepad but before she could take it out, Santana's hand was on hers.

"Not here you idiot," she hissed under her breath and once again, looked to her left and right, "I'll meet you at Tuckers tonight, 11pm. That's when I get my break."

Quinn sighed. Everything with Santana was always a compromise. "Fine. Tuckers at 11pm it is." She unfolded her arms and started to leave.

"Don't bring your new boy toy."

Quinn quirked a brow and very slowly, turned around. "Careful there Lopez, or I would think you're jealous."

The responding scoff was instantaneous, as were the two fingers that shot up in the air. "Please. Only in your dreams. Now get out of here."

Not for the first time, she wondered why she tolerated such insolence.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello all. No, I have not forgotten about TLAP. But I had this idea and plot mapped out for the longest time. The story was inspired by a news article I came across in 2014 - an actual case known as "Operation Snowfall". That's where I extracted the details from. Having said that, this story is going to be a short one, probably a four-shot, and it should be completed by the end of next week. Next update on Wednesday.**

 **Happy Monday y'all!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: A big thank you to all who have reviewed, followed, favourited, and read this story.**

* * *

Quinn pulled up right outside Tuckers a minute before eleven. The weather had been dreary recently and tonight was no different. She braced herself before opening the door and stepped out under a torrent of rain. Luckily, it was only a ten second dash before she reached shelter.

Still, that had been enough time for water to collect in her hair. Running her hand through her short mop, she was reminded of just why she had chosen to shear her locks off a year ago. It was a decision she did not regret.

She shrugged off her wet jacket and with some reluctance, stepped into Tuckers. Tuckers was a joint that for some reason, Santana seemed to enjoy frequenting. The place reeked of cigarette smoke, the food was barely edible and the service was pitiful. She cringed when a screech pierced her ears and glared over to where the "band" was playing. Oh yes, how could she forget to mention the music, if you could even call it that.

Fidgeting irritably, she scanned the bar and came up empty. Of course, Santana would be late. She snarled off an offer from a slimy douchebag who wanted to buy her a drink and managed to jockey her way to a corner booth. When a bored, middle-aged waitress came by to get her order, she decided that even a dive such as Tuckers couldn't go wrong with a bottle of sparkling water.

After placing her order, she took a book out from her bag only to realise that the waitress was still hovering above her, her pencil tapping impatiently on her notebook. A slight frown crossed her face. "That's my order."

The waitress scowled down at her and clucked her tongue in annoyance. "A bottle of water? You sure that's all you want?"

Quinn nodded, unbothered by the waitress' shortness. She would prefer to get back to her book but she had been brought up to be polite.

"Yes, thank you."

With an annoyed huff, the waitress flounced off and returned much later to slam a bottle down in front of Quinn, who now had her nose buried in her book.

"You sure you don't want anything else?"

"No thank you." She said without looking up.

"Look here lady…"

Quinn's lips pursed. She was just getting to the good part. If this waitress went ahead and ran her mouth, she would…

"Yo Sunny, ignore the prude."

The interruption allowed her the time needed to release the tension she was feeling.

"She's with me – probably on a diet again. I'll have me a burger and a beer. Oh yes, and one basket of your delectable fries."

" _She's_ with you?" The waitress' tone was hardly polite but Quinn didn't bother correcting her attitude.

"Yeah. Why? Think she's too good for me?" Santana challenged, slipping into the seat across from Quinn. Her dark hair was wet and pulled up into a ponytail. Once she was seated, she tugged off the band holding her hair and ran her fingers through to untangle the locks.

Sunny gave a nasty laugh and shook her head. "Hardly. More like the other way round. You could do better girl."

Quinn finally set her book aside and looked up, clasping her hands together in front of her. "Ladies, I'm right here."

"I don't give a.."

Santana was quick to cut in before the conversation could sour. "Sunny? You know I love you but hurry up with the food, will ya? I'm starving!"

"Aren't you always? And dry yourself up! You're dripping water all over my floor." Sunny grumbled but she left to get their orders in, not before giving Quinn another unfriendly onceover and tossing Santana a clean dishrag.

Satisfied they would be unbothered for some time, Quinn set out her notebook and pen. "You're late."

"You should be glad I even came." Santana said, seemingly distracted as she glanced about the bar, but Quinn knew she was just checking the area for potential eavesdroppers. She didn't know why Santana bothered though. She could hardly hear herself over the ear-splitting tragedy of the band. "Wouldn't want you choking the life out of poor Sunny just because you couldn't wait to find out what happened in your precious book. Want me to break it down for you?"

Very coolly, Quinn twisted the cap off her bottle and took a much-needed sip. Barely ten minutes in this place and the smoke was irritating her throat. "I wasn't going to choke _poor Sunny_. And no thank you, I detest spoilers."

She really shouldn't have said that because Santana loved stepping on her toes. The mischievous glint in her eye was very telling of what she was about to do next. "Shame. Since you loathe spoilers, I shan't tell you how T.J., annoying as he is, will eventually get the shit beaten out of him by his two white friends. I shall also not tell you that in order to save him from being lynched, Papa Logan set his own land on fire. I shall also not tell you that…"

"Do you want me to beat the shit out of you?"

Santana scoffed. "You can try."

Quinn's unamused glare had Santana shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "But we're not here to fight. Right Detective?"

"Glad you know that." Santana only called her by her rank when she knew she had ruffled her feathers. "We are also not here to talk about Roll of Thunder, intriguing as it is." Despite her cool façade, she couldn't help herself from asking the next question. "But why was T.J. beaten up?"

As expected, Santana's feral smile grew. "But detective, I wouldn't want to get the shit beaten out of.. Ow. Fuck! What did you kick me for?"

Now, it was Quinn's turn to gloat. "You know why."

"Fuck you. That hurts like a bitch."

"So why was T.J. beaten up?"

"Fuck if I.. Ow! Stop th..Ow! Ok fine! Because he robbed a store and his stinking two-faced, white friends turned on him. Happy?" Santana glared, rubbing at her bruised shin.

Satisfied, Quinn leaned back and smiled pleasantly. "Very."

"Why are you reading that book anyway? Thought you would read something more fitting of your high intellect."

"Your sarcasm isn't lost on me."

"That's the point innit?"

"My little cousin is doing the book in school. I'm surprised you even read."

"Hey! I'm literate okay."

Quinn paused when she realised Santana was genuinely offended. Her eyes softened. "I wasn't implying anything."

"Just because I'm a…" She trailed off and turned away. "Forget it."

"I wasn't implying anything. I'm sorry if you thought I was."

"Said forget it." Though Santana's tone was still harsh, the way she turned her body back to Quinn showed all was forgiven. That was why Quinn always had a soft spot for her informant – she was hard on the outside but peel apart the layers, and you find a marshmallow.

"Fuck you bitch. That really hurt."

Well ok. Maybe not exactly a marshmallow, but Santana had a soft side to her.

"So, shall we get down to business?"

"How about not, at least till I've food in front of me."

As if on cue, Sunny sauntered up and set down a greasy plate of burger, a basket of fries and a pint of beer on their table.

"There's your food. Surely you can eat and talk."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Always so bossy. Thanks Sunny." Santana beamed at their dour-faced waitress and tucked in.

"So first things first - Rick Nelson. What do you know about him?"

Santana shook her head, even as she munched on her fries. "Nuh-uh. You know how this works. What do _you_ know about Ricky?"

Quinn sighed. She had never had a more uncooperative snitch but Santana was a good informant. She knew the comings and goings of almost all the drug activities in Washington Heights. More importantly, she was as ethical as a dealer was going to get, if the incident in the afternoon was anything to go by. Since she couldn't afford to lose this source of information, Quinn conceded. "We know he's a kingpin. He takes orders from one main apartment…"

"His own home."

".. and sends the orders out to several rented apartments, where all the drugs are kept. That's where he sells."

Santana made a humming sound to show she was listening.

"Based on our records, Rick has been charged with rape thrice, once in 2000, then in 2009 and 2012. All charges were eventually dropped, same with the battery charges he sustained over the years."

"Fucker." Santana commented through a mouthful of bread and meat.

Quinn's eyes brows lifted. "I find that suspicious."

"Of course it is."

Interested, Quinn leaned forward. "You mentioned a connection earlier in the afternoon."

"And that connection has nothing to do with your case."

"Santana."

"You're a narcotics officer. Rick's connection isn't in that business."

"If it affects my case…"

"It doesn't." Santana insisted, swallowing her food with a big swig of beer. Taking in the woman's toned figure, Quinn wondered with some envy where all her calories went. For a small woman, Santana was quite a big eater.

"Fine." She accepted the answer, knowing she would get nothing else from her informant. For now. "What we don't know is.. you've got mayo right here." Quinn pointed to the left corner of her own mouth and handed a napkin over to Santana. "To your left. Yeah right there. Ok. So while we know where Nelson's home is, we have no idea where the other apartments are."

Done with her burger, Santana crumpled the napkin and tossed it onto her empty plate. She then pulled the basket of fries closer for easier access. "Then find them."

"We would, if we knew where to start."

"Well I can't help you there. I don't know anything."

Quinn blinked in surprise. Now that was a first. "Nelson practically runs the scene in Washington Heights."

"So?"

"You work the streets in Washington Heights."

Santana chewed on a fry. "Again, so?"

"So how could you not have some information about him?"

Santana laughed. "Girl, use your brain. You've just laid out the facts for me. Ricky is a violent person who likes pretty girls. But somehow, all charges made against him have dropped faster than flies. So what do you think?"

"You're hiding information."

Santana rolled her eyes and tossed a fry at Quinn. "Wrong answer. Are you sure you're a detective?" Luckily for Quinn, she was quick enough to avoid the oily stick of potato. It ended up bouncing harmlessly on the surface behind her, leaving behind a greasy smear. "It means I'm smart enough to mind my own business while Ricky minds his. I don't bother him. He don't bother me. It's simple math."

"It's bad grammar." Quinn corrected.

"Whatever. So if you're done here, I'm done here. I'm gonna go now." She wiped her fingers on a fresh piece of napkin, then started to rise. But Quinn slapped a hand down on hers.

"Hands off."

"I'm not finished."

With a dramatic sigh, Santana flopped back into her seat, yanked her hand out from under Quinn's and crossed her arms. "Well spit it out then. Some of us actually want to make it home tonight."

"When will you be able to get me some information?"

Santana's arms fell to the table. "When? When?" She laughed mirthlessly. "Have you not been listening? There's no _when_ Quinn. I'm not getting into this."

"The department will pay you."

Even with the prospect of money, Santana shook her head. "There's not enough money you can give me to do this. Get someone else."

"I don't have someone else."

"Then too bad."

She hated to use this card. She really did but when Santana tried to leave again, she saw no choice. "Then you can get ready to go back to jail."

That got Santana back into her seat. "Fuck you. You can't hold that above me forever."

"Try me."

She saw the way Santana's jaw worked and knew she was seething. She would too if their roles were reversed.

"Think of your grandmother Santana."

The hands on the table clenched into dangerous fists and when Santana spoke, her voice was but a harsh whisper. "Don't you fucking dare pull her into this. She knows nothing. She has nothing to do with what I'm doing."

Quinn frowned. "I meant the money she could use. She's sick, isn't she?"

The anger rose a notch. "You've been stalking me?"

"I wouldn't say stalking. I like to think I take care of my own."

Santana snorted. "Yeah right. That's why you're muscling me into a corner. Another thing white girl: I'm nobody's person. I take care of myself."

"Santana, listen. If you can help us, if you can get us the information we need, the department will pay you a.."

Santana threw her arms up into the air in exasperation. "Don't you get it? Money's not going to be worth jack to me if I'm dead! I've told you and I'll tell you again. Ricky has dangerous connections. I'm not interested in becoming one of your statistics."

Quinn's forehead scrunched up in confusion. "Our statistics?"

"You think I don't know how you sick fucks work? We risk our lives getting you what you need. You give us a nice sum of money, then leave us to the wolves. You get your catch, and people like us get killed. You kill two birds in one stone. Very clever but it's not going to work on me."

Her frown deepened. Santana's allegation was insulting, but more than that, it hurt. "We've worked together for two years now. You think I would do that to you?"

Santana let out a bitter laugh. "Worked together? You think we…" She laughed again – a short, ugly laugh. Then as her eyes locked onto Quinn's, her face darkened into a scowl. "I work for you. We've never worked together. You hardly ever leave me with a choice."

Quinn found she had no reply to that.

"And the bit about throwing me to the wolves? You've just never had the opportunity to do that. Until now."

That Quinn could rebut. "That's not true. I don't intend to leave you unguarded if it's as dangerous as you claim."

"It _is_ as dangerous as I claim. Take my fucking word for it."

"Then let us protect you. We have a programme…"

Santana didn't even let her finish before she tore in. "What? The WPP? That programme is a fuck load of crap. I've heard stories. I'm not exchanging one prison for another."

"It's not a prison. You'll be assigned security agents. You'll be kept safe. You get a standard allowance, you get enough money to buy a car, some furniture. They take care of your expenses, whatever you need – medical, dental – they'll pay for everything."

"Including my funeral service? No thanks. I'll take jail anytime." For the third time, Santana stood up. Her eyes glittered coldly; her face was as dark as a storm cloud. "Better for me to be put away than to end up in a box. It's bad enough for a mother to attend her daughter's funeral. But her granddaughter's?" Santana laughed humourlessly and shook her head. "No thank you. I'm not putting my abuela through that."

Recognising a dead-end when she saw one, Quinn rose to her feet in a last-ditch attempt to persuade Santana. "What if I can give you my word that you and your grandmother will be kept safe?"

She needn't have tried. "Your word means jack shit to me. Your kind doesn't give a fuck about us."

"That's not true." Quinn protested but even as she said it, she felt guilty. Here she was implying that she cared when she was at the same time, coercing Santana into doing something that could possibly endanger her life. Talk about hypocritical.

Something must have shown in her expression because Santana softened. The tension eased out of her shoulders, the hardness disappeared as she sighed heavily. In that moment, she simply looked world-weary. "Look Quinn, for a cop, you're decent. And I like to think that for a drug-dealer, I'm decent too. But you don't know my world like I do. The cops.. Let's just say you're always going to be the good guys, even when you're not."

"What are you trying to say Santana?"

"We're just statistics to you. No, don't disagree yet." Santana held up a hand when Quinn started shaking her head. "Your job requires you to see the bigger picture. It's all about the greater good and if you lose a few black sheep along the way, so much the better."

"That's.. that's.." That's not true. That's not fair, she wanted to say. But she couldn't, because Santana's words held truth even if they weren't fair. But nothing in this world was fair and Santana wasn't done.

"Who's to say that's wrong or right? But that's the trouble with grey areas innit? And our jobs? The kind of things we do? They put us in the grey so much it's hard to keep our heads above the water but we both gotta do what we gotta do. Besides, even if you really cared, you're just one person against the whole system and that really isn't enough."

It was difficult to argue against that.

"But if you're going to take me in, just do me this favour? Keep it from my Abuela."

"Santana.."

"Just this one favour."

Their eyes locked. Time slowed down. Quinn was the first to look away. "Just.. just mull over it for a week, would you?"

"I don't need one week to mull but I could use the week." She gave Quinn a curt nod then turned to leave. "Remember to tip Sunny."

It was only then that Quinn remembered they hadn't paid. Grumbling to herself, she reluctantly pulled out her wallet to pay for a meal she hadn't eaten. Bitch didn't even thank her for the treat. Typical.

* * *

 **Next update: Sat/Sun**


	3. Chapter 3

As it turned out, Santana didn't need the week. She called after five days, her voice hoarse and scratchy.

"Detective Fabray." She answered shortly. The deadline for one of her case files was due in an hour.

"How much?"

"Pardon?" Quinn frowned, pulling away to look at the screen. She recognized the unknown number as that belonging to a public phone booth.

"You said the department would pay. How much?"

It took a few seconds for her to place the voice and for the dots to connect. When they did, she perked up. "Santana? You want in?"

At the name, Sam, previously deep in paperwork, looked up too. _"Your snitch?"_ he mouthed.

She nodded and turned away from her partner. For some reason, she felt like the conversation should be kept private.

"How much?" Santana repeated over the phone.

"It depends on how much information you can get us."

She heard a long blow of breath from the other side. "Fuck Quinn. You have to give me more than that."

"You know I would if I could."

There was a pause, then, "If.. If I can get you everything you need, how much would you give me?"

"It depends on whether it would be enough information to crack the case and indict Nelson."

"Indict Nelson?" Santana laughed but the sound seemed strange to Quinn's ears. Santana sounded strange today. Something was wrong. "What I intend to give you will be enough to bring down his entire operation."

"If you can do that, let's just say your rental days are over."

"Then I'm in. How soon will I be able to get the money?"

"How soon will you be able to get me the information?"

Another pause. "I'll call you when I have something. You just get the money ready."

"Wait Santana." Quinn piped up before her informant could hang up. She bit her lip as she hesitated. "Are you sure about this?"

"I'm doing what you want, aren't I? Just get the money ready Quinn."

She thought she heard Santana's voice hitch at the end but she couldn't be sure and before she could, the call had ended.

She should feel happy. She should feel excited that her case was now going somewhere. After all, _it was what she wanted_ , wasn't it? It was strange then that all she felt was a nagging worry.

"Everything ok?" Sam called her out of her thoughts.

"Yeah." She replied slowly, her eyes still glued to her phone.

"So, your snitch?"

"Yeah. She says she's in."

"Really?" His mouth split into a massive grin. "That's awesome Quinn!"

"Yeah." She dragged out the word, trying her best not to sound as unsure as she felt. It was supposed to be awesome, wasn't it?

"That means we've got Rick Nelson in the bag yeah?"

He was getting ahead of himself. It was only the beginning.

"Only if she manages to get us the information we need."

"And if she doesn't?"

"If she doesn't?" She repeated blankly and shrugged. "Let's just take it a day as it comes."

"What if she gets caught?"

She blinked. _Then she'll be screwed_ , she wanted to say. Instead, she pursed her lips and looked back down at her phone. "Give me a minute Sam. I've to make a few calls." There was something she needed to find out.

As it turned out, a

* * *

ll it took was one call for her to find out how Santana's grandmother's condition had taken a turn for the worse. She would be needing a colorectal resection within the next three months if she didn't want the cancer to spread. It wasn't difficult to guess why Santana had changed her mind and what she would be needing the money for.

* * *

It was another two weeks before Santana next contacted her, again through a public number.

"Why haven't you been picking up my calls?" was Quinn's heated greeting to her informant. It had been two weeks since they last spoke and she had been worried.

"I told you I would call you!" Santana hissed back. The sound of traffic could be heard in the background. "Now shut up and listen bitch. I've only got a minute. Here's the first address."

Biting her tongue to keep from chastising Santana for her language, Quinn scribbled down the address provided.

"They take at least a hundred orders a day. Apparently, there's a trapdoor they use as a storage facility, but they rent a separate apartment for weighing and packaging, just seven floors up."

"In the same building?"

"Yeah. It's kinda dumb. I wouldn't do that."

"Of course you wouldn't." Quinn commented dryly. "And how do they take their orders?"

"By phone, duh. They're using a burner though so I'm not sure if you'll be able to track their calls."

"Will you be able to get me the number?"

"I can try." Santana replied after some hesitation. "I'll have to ask around though. You know that will cost."

"You worry about getting me the information and I'll worry about getting you the money."

"Fine." Santana grudgingly agreed. "Are you going to take action?"

"Right now?" Quinn quickly considered the possible options. "Unlikely. It would be wiser if we could first lock down all the locations."

"Good." Santana sounded relieved. "So my money?"

"I'll wire it to you once I've cleared the paperwork."

"Make sure no one will be able to track the money!"

Quinn rolled her eyes. Santana should know by now that she was always careful. "As if you had to remind me. Stay safe."

"Yeah, yeah." She grumbled before hanging up.

* * *

Thing turned sour about two months in. Somehow, word had gotten round to Ricky that someone had been asking about him. Unfortunately for Santana, she wasn't hard to find.

Nelson sent four of them; heavily-tattooed, muscled thugs in ripped tees and jeans. The moment she saw them, she recognized them as one of the groups Ricky sent out whenever he wanted to intimidate someone, give someone a beat down, or make a kill. Often, the three weren't exclusive. In her case, she hoped that she could avoid options one and two if three was her fate but no way was she going down without a fight. She couldn't say she hadn't been expecting this but she certainly hadn't expected to be found out this quickly. If not for the two beefcakes blocking the entrance to the alleyway, she would have attempted to make a run for it.

"Lopez." The biggest one grinned down at her. He had a gravelly voice, the kind that sounded like he had a lot of sticky phlegm stuck in his throat. Gross.

"I would say the same to you but I don't know your name, all four of you. You here to buy dope?" Though her palms had started sweating, she kept her tone cool and her gaze steady.

Beefcake One merely looked at his friends in confusion. "Buy dope? Why the hell would we wanna buy dope from _you_? Ricky has lots of em."

Santana forced her shoulders into a careless shrug. "I dunno. People only come to me if they wanna buy dope." Or if they wanted to beat her up.

"You don't know us?" Beefcake One frowned, as if only just realizing what she had mentioned half a minute ago. God, why were the beefcakes always such retards? "You must've seen us around."

"Yeah, but I don't know you."

He scratched his head slowly. "Well I'm John. That's Harry and Jonas at the.."

"Dude get on with it. Just because she's a pretty girl doesn't mean you forget the job." Beefcake two interjected with a scowl. He was slightly leaner than his partner and had an ugly scar running across the entirety of his forehead. As if he wasn't already hideous enough without that mark.

"But she said…"

"Shut it John. I know what she said."

Seeing that John wasn't the leader of the group, she turned her attention to Scarface.

"I'll just get straight to the point Lopez. We hear you've been asking about Ricky."

She played it cool. "Yeah so? I'm just asking questions. I haven't done anything wrong."

He sneered and stepped into her space, backing her up against the wall. "Oh yeah? How about you think again?"

She obliged him and put on her best thinking face. "Ok thought about it. Still can't figure out what I did wrong."

Just as she expected, Scarface didn't like her answer. He took a step forward and shoved her back against the wall. Her shoulders hit the bricks hard and she winced. "You wanna play hard ball Lopez?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Shut up!" He said with another push. Well that was rude and uncalled for. She was just answering his question. Why ask when you didn't want an answer? "Who are you working for?"

"Er no one? You know…" She was shocked silent when he smacked her face. It wasn't a particularly hard hit but the force was enough to tilt her face to the side, and enough for her to see red. "What the hell!"

She shoved back at him with both palms but he barely budged.

"I asked nicely."

"And I fucking answered nicely. What the hell is your problem?"

"Ricky doesn't like liars. You would know. You were friends with Puck weren't you?"

She gulped. She was.. no, had been. She had been friends with Puck before the police found him dead in one of the alleys. His tongue had been cut off. Everyone knew who had done it but there hadn't been any proof to get Puck the justice he deserved.

"So Lopez?"

"What?" She hissed. Her throat had gone dry. Behind Scarface, she could see John playing with his switchblade.

"You want to tell me the truth?"

"What truth?"

"Who the fuck are you working for? I'm not asking you again."

"I work for no one! Fuck.. no wait!" She pleaded when Rick grabbed her by the collar and gestured for John to come over. "I swear I'm not lying! You know I've always worked alone!"

"Really? Because that's what we find so funny. You've been a lone wolf for so long but suddenly you start asking questions and Ricky starts losing territory."

Santana blinked, her thoughts racing with this newfound fact. "Wait. What?"

"We thought you got it Lopez. We thought you understood. You stay out of Ricky's and we stay out of yours."

So they weren't here because they had found out she was a mole. They were here because they thought she was working for a rival who wanted a piece of Ricky's pie. As it so happened, she knew the name of this rival.

"Here's your last chance Lopez. Either you fess up and you give us a name or we fuck you up real bad."

If she really had been guilty of helping the new player, she was fucked. But telling these guys the true reason for her questioning was not an option. If they knew, she would be all the more fucked. Both options were dead ends.

"You gonna talk or are we gonna have to stand here all day?"

Her heart pounded. Her mind raced. She weighed her options and made her decision. If she was lucky, she was only going to bleed but at least she would get out of it alive. She closed her eyes and gave them what they wanted.

"Tank." She said through clenched teeth. She was going to hell for this but fuck it. She was already a drug-dealer. She was going to hell anyway. "They call him the Tank on the streets."

She opened her eyes and saw Scarface exchanging looks and nods with his fellow beefcakes. They knew she wasn't lying.

"His real name is Shane, Shane Tinsley."

"Where does he live?"

"I don't know. I really don't know!" She insisted when he lifted his fists. "Just ask for the Tank and you'll find him. That's all I know, I swear. I only helped him because he wanted to kill my ma."

God help her for lying and causing someone else's demise.

Scarface laughed nastily. "You have no ma Lopez."

"You know what I mean." She snapped. She always got testy when it came to her grandmother.

"I don't care for what reason Lopez. You know the rules in the Heights. You should have come to us or Ricky."

Her heart sank when he took a menacing step forward. She knew what was coming, and that talking or fighting back would only make it worse. So she did the only thing that would help – she braced and defended herself.

* * *

Quinn was scowling down at a bunch of papers when her cell rang. Glad for the distraction, she snatched her phone up and put it to her ear.

"Detective Fabray."

She frowned when a familiar voice rasped through the speaker. "Quinn." She would recognize the voice anywhere but there was something wrong in the way Santana was saying her name. It made her hairs stand on end. "Shane Tinsley. The Tank. Help him."

Her frown deepened. She recognized the name, had recently seen his mug pinned up on Stevenson's board, but she wasn't involved in that case and as far as she knew, neither was Santana.

"Santana? Wha…"

"They're after him. Hurry!"

She wanted to ask more questions but Santana's tone was urgent and pleading in a way it had never been before. She swallowed heavily, eyes scanning the bullpen to seek out Stevenson's desk. To her left, she could feel Sam's gaze burning into her.

"Stevenson!" She barked when she saw him hunched over his computer. "I have a situation."

He turned tired eyes to her. "Can it wait? I'm up to here in paperwork." He flattened his palm out and brought it over his head.

"No. Your guy?" She jabbed a finger at Shane Tinsley's photo. "My girl says he has people after him. Probably Ricky's guys."

"What!" Stevenson sprung into action immediately, dragging a calloused hand through his hair. "Shit. Young, Anderson, with me! Young, radio in to find out if there are any legs or wheels in Washington Heights. High alert." He spared a moment to look at Quinn. "Let's hope we're in time. Word on the street is that Ricky is brutal."

She nodded solemnly. "I know. That's why I'm telling you."

"What's going on?"

"Sam. Your timing is just right. Go with Stevenson. He'll fill you in."

"What?"

"Go!" She repeated sternly before returning her attention to the phone. "Santana, you still there?"

"Mmmmm."

"Did they get you? How bad are you hurt?"

There was a brief pause, as if Santana was considering if she should lie. "I've had worse."

Quinn rolled her eyes. Of course she would say that. She patted her pocket for her keys and when she found them, moved swiftly to the door. "Where are you?"

She had so many questions but now wasn't the time for them. Still, she could put two and two together. Her guess was that Ricky's men had caught onto Santana's snooping. They obviously hadn't been happy. What she couldn't figure out was what Shane Tinsley had to do with the entire thing.

"The usual."

"Okay, stay there. I'm coming over."

"Don't!" There was a pained groan that worried Quinn. "Fuck. Don't. Shane first."

"Sam's already left. We've got a few cruisers patrolling the area. Just stay put. Will they come back for you?"

"No. Puck."

Quinn's hands clenched into fists. "Puck's the guy we should be looking for?"

"No. Don't let him be another Puck."

"I don't…"

"They would have cut my tongue off."

And suddenly it all made sense. They thought Santana was a rat but somehow, she had placed that accusation onto Shane Tinsley's head.

Quinn had read all of Ricky's files and one particular case had been difficult to forget. The police had uncovered a corpse in one of the alleys in Washington Heights with his severed tongue shoved up his ass. Word was that he had been caught ratting on Ricky and Ricky hadn't been happy at all. There hadn't been enough sufficient evidence found and no one had been courageous enough to take the stands. Puck must have been that guy.

She pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead and rubbed. "Santana, I…" She stopped and wracked her brains for something to say. How do you assuage someone's guilt when she did what she could to save her own life, and then risked it again so she could possibly save the other's life?

Quinn shook her head and inhaled deeply. There wasn't anything she could say that would make Santana feel better. The only thing that would help now was to get to Tinsley in time. She needed an aspirin. "Don't blame yourself ok? You did good. You did what you had to do. Now leave it to us. Just.. just stay put ok? I'll come get you."

"Kay."

She didn't know how a single, agreeable word could sound so broken.

* * *

Quinn found Santana lying on the ground, curled up into herself and clutching her ribs. She tried to recall a time when Santana had looked so small or vulnerable. She couldn't.

When she approached, Santana rolled around and she had to force herself not to wince. "Wow. You look like shit." She stated the obvious, instead of asking about the tear tracks staining Santana's cheeks.

"Only because I let them bust me up." Santana said weakly, through bloody lips and teeth, peering out at her from swollen eyes.

"I'm sure." Quinn quipped half-heartedly as she helped Santana up to a sitting position. "We got to Tinsley in time. Apparently, he's about as bust up as you, probably only because he let them." She added as an afterthought.

She smiled when Santana laughed in relief, but the laughter quickly became a coughing fit, and the smile fell from her face. "Ok come on. Let's get you to a hospital."

"Is the…"

"Yes you stinge. The department will be paying for your bills."

"You're a fucker." Santana said but Quinn knew what she really meant was "thank you".

* * *

 **A/N: Edited this multiple times before I thought it was good to go. Hope it wasn't confusing! Next and last update: Monday? (Hopefully). Happy weekend!**


	4. Chapter 4

After an x-ray, the doctor declared that Santana had broken two ribs ("I didn't break anything dickhead! I was assaulted!", both on the left side of her chest. She had been _lucky_ no damage had been done to her lungs or heart ("Are you fucking kidding me right now? I have broken ribs. How is that lucky?)

Although the doctor had advised bed rest for the next two weeks, Quinn found Santana in one of her regular dealing spots, just after a week.

"Why are you out and about?"

Santana jumped at the voice but relaxed when she realised it was just Quinn. Still, the movement had jarred her healing ribs. "Fuck. Don't do that." She winced, resting her hand on the throbbing region.

"You really should be resting at home." Quinn's tone was light, but Santana noticed the disapproval in the hazel eyes as they scanned her form. She turned away, feeling slightly self-conscious.

Ever since Quinn had picked her up in the alley, something had shifted between them. They were now, dare she say, something like friends.

She rolled her eyes, more out of habit than from irritation. "I'm fine."

"Sure can't tell from your face. Didn't I tell you to ice the eye?" Without realising, she had reached out to gently thumb the bruised region. At least the swell had gone down.

"Yeah but I had to ice my ribs too. There's only so much freeze a person can take before they turn to ice."

"You're incorrigible." Quinn shook her head fondly before a thought struck her. "You mean there are actual people who would continue buying goods from you when you look like that?"

"Hey! I'm still hotter than most, if not all of the other bozos." Despite the bravado, Santana's hands still fluttered up to her face. So what? She was a fine female specimen. It was her prerogative to be vain.

"What you look like, Lopez, is shit. You look like shit." Quinn repeated for emphasis. "Go home."

" _You_ go home." Santana responded childishly. "What are you doing here anyway? I haven't gotten anything new if you're here for information. Laying low, remember?"

Quinn frowned. "I remember." She couldn't help feeling a little offended. It had been her suggestion after all. It wasn't like she was going to put Santana in further danger after what happened mere days ago. "Can't I just swing by to check on you?"

She would have laughed at Santana's stupefied expression if she hadn't felt a little hurt by it. "Whatever. I just wanted to laugh in your face. How's your grandmother?"

Again, Santana looked at her strangely, her head angled to the side like she was trying to figure out the answer to a challenging problem. Finally, she blinked and shrugged in an attempt to appear nonchalant. "The doctors say she'll live. She's just shitting into a bag for now, at least until her asshole closes up."

"That… doesn't sound right. Your asshole _is_ supposed to open, you know? So your poop has a way out?"

"Yeah? I guess that makes sense. It must be the bit before the asshole then."

"Were you even listening when the doctor was explaining how the operation worked?"

"Shut up." Santana scowled at her. "Nobody cares about stuff you can't see."

"So it's the colon then?" Quinn prompted, wanting to continue the conversation for entertainment purposes.

"Yeah, that. Whatever." Santana huffed, casually swiping her hand in the air. "So they cut her colon up to get the big ass, cancerous tumour out and they were supposed to reattach her colon back, but for some reason, they couldn't and so now there's a hole before her asshole and they have to wait for it to heal before she can shit normally."

"Shit."

Santana stifled a chuckle at the unintended pun. "Yeah."

"That sounds nasty."

"Wait till you smell it."

"Urgh." Quinn scrunched up her nose and shook her head vigorously to rid her brain of the image. She figured now was a good time to change the topic. "Soooo, we should be able to close this case up real soon. What are you going to do after that happens? Are we going to be back on opposite sides of the law?"

Santana snorted out a laugh. "What planet have you been living in _Detective_ Fabray? If you haven't noticed, in which case you deserve to have your badge removed, we _are_ on opposite sides of the law. We always have been. Got a problem with that?" Santana raised her eyebrows in challenge.

For some reason, Quinn found herself angry. Santana shouldn't be doing this. They shouldn't be forced to revert back to being enemies once this case was over, as they always were. "Actually I do."

"Excuse me?" Santana asked. It was clear from her shocked face that she hadn't been expecting Quinn's answer.

"I do have a problem with you dealing dope because against my better judgment, I've grown to be rather fond of you, but not when you look like this." She jabbed a finger at Santana's bruised face and made a circle. "You should be looking for a job that doesn't…." She choked on her words, suffocated by the influx of emotions. "This job is going to get you killed one day. You're not brutal enough for it."

Santana only stared at her, and she glared back defiantly, daring her to say something, anything that would prove her wrong.

Finally, Santana blinked. She did it slowly and with a frown, as if was still trying to process all that Quinn had said. "Are you saying I'm a softie?" She looked so appalled at the accusation that Quinn wanted to laugh.

"Yes." She replied instantly, still in that defiant tone. "You'll never be a kingpin."

"What? Who told you… I don't want to be a kingpin ok? If I did, I would have been one years ago. You think Ricky would be able to measure up to me if I had really chosen to contest his reign? Pffft." She puffed up her chest and scoffed. "And FYI, I don't just deal ok? I bartend at this place called Joe's. They serve really good steak and even better drinks. You should come by one day."

Now, it was Quinn's turn to be taken aback. "You do? Since when?"

"Yeah, since a couple of months back. I was thinking of making drinks full-time, like at a club or a hotel or something you know? Maybe attend some classes. Joe was saying I'm pretty good and… You don't have to look so shocked when I say I'm good at something. Close your mouth." Santana ordered, offended at the look on Quinn's face. "God, you're such a dick."

True enough, Quinn found that her jaw had dropped. "What? No I wasn't.. I'm just.." She stopped short, realising something incredibly amusing. "Santana, are you blushing?"

"What? No! No, I'm not! Ethnic people don't blush!"

"Oh my gosh. You totally are."

"No, I'm not. Stop smiling at me like that. It's creepy and you're delusional."

"This is hilarious. Can I take a picture?"

"What? No! What the fuck is wrong with you!"

She cracked up at the horrified look on Santana's face.

"Stop laughing. It's not funny."

But it was and Santana knew it when she eventually let a smile grace her lips. They ended up laughing until they were forced to stop because Santana's ribs hurt too much from the shaking.

If she had known it would be the last time they would see each other, she would have basked in the moment a little longer, or at least snapped a photo.

* * *

The department threw a celebration when they closed the case. Operation Snowfall was declared a success when they stormed Nelson's apartments and found enough evidence to charge him and his lackeys. The drug ring between New York City and the Dutchess County was officially broken.

She accepted the slaps on the back, the congratulations, the complimentary beer, but found herself feeling strangely empty. Sure, she had a major stake in helping bring Nelson down but someone else important was missing from this celebration, and she couldn't help but feel that person deserved it more.

"Hey, you ok?"

She looked up from where she was fiddling with her phone to see Sam offering her a Budweiser. She accepted it with a word of thanks.

"Yeah.. just glad this is finally over."

"Mmmm. It was a hell of a first job."

"Yeah it is. It's going to look good on your resume."

"Couldn't have done it without your snitch."

"She wouldn't like being called that." She said instinctively, looking back down at her phone with a tiny frown. It sure was taking a long time for Santana to reply to her "Nelson is finally dust. Wanna hang next Monday?" text. Bitch always ignored her messages whenever they weren't working on a case. She had to admit she was a little disappointed by the lack of response though. For some reason, she thought it would be different this time.

"So you've mentioned. Here." Sam held out another bottle of Budweiser, this one unopened. When Quinn merely lifted her eyebrows and tapped the drink she was currently sipping at, he smiled. "This one's not for you. I was thinking…" He scratched his head and cleared his throat in discomfort, his eyes landing everywhere except on hers. "I mean I've never met your girl but I think she deserves to be here as much as us, you know? So to our unofficial partner?" He asked hopefully, raising his bottle in the air.

She clinked her drink to his without hesitation. "You don't even have to ask."

When her phone chimed, she looked down to see a text notification. Santana had finally replied.

 _Hang me now. Bar is busy as fuck and I'm tired as fuck. I want a steak and beer. You're paying._

 _I'll pay for the steak. Sam will pay for the Budweiser._

This time, she didn't have to wait another hour for Santana's response.

 _Who the fuck is Sam?_

She rolled her eyes and chuckled softly.

 _My partner._

 _Fuck that. He's not crashing ladies' night. I'll make you a drink._

She was halfway typing out her reply when her phone chimed once more.

 _But bring that Budweiser anyway._

She ended up snorting into her beer.

* * *

When Quinn stepped into the office on the following Monday morning, she was on cloud nine. She had just returned from the prosecutor's office and things weren't looking up for Rick Nelson and his twelve accomplices. Between them, they were facing over 140 charges and there was no way any of them would be escaping this one, not without waking up to prison walls for the next twenty years.

She was actually whistling when she made her way to her table and even the ever-stoic Erikson had looked up at her, a curious expression gracing his otherwise constantly expressionless face.

And then everything fell apart.

"Quinn! Have you heard?" Sam panted, chest heaving in his rush to get to her table. "I've been trying to call you!"

"Oh I was charging my…"

He didn't wait for her to finish. "There was a fire last night, Washington Heights. A really bad one. They've roped in the arson team."

"What?" Dread filled her. Sam wouldn't be telling her this if it didn't involve someone she knew, and the only person she knew who lived in Washington Heights was….

"It started in Santana's apartment." Her heart dropped. Her hair stood on their ends. "I heard from Schuester when I got in." He shook his head, his Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed nervously. "They said there was an explosion. Shit. Quinn. I'm so sorry. They said, they said.."

"What?" She wrapped her hands around his arms in a tight grip. "What did they say?"

"They said it may have been a gas leak, or.. or.."

"Or what Sam? Spit it out!"

"A bomb." He half-whispered. "It's too early to tell but there weren't any survivors Quinn. Not from that unit."

All the air deflated out of her and she sagged, releasing her hold on him.

"I'm so sorry Quinn. They suspect Nelson's cousin."

He continued speaking but all she heard was her own hard breathing and a roaring in her ears.

 _"Ricky is dangerous or rather, he's not but his connections are."_

 _"I've told you and I'll tell you again. Ricky has dangerous connections. I'm not interested in becoming one of your statistics."_

Maybe she blacked out for a while but she doubted that because when she opened her eyes, she was still standing and Sam was calling her name repeatedly with increasing anxiety.

When she finally met his gaze, he almost backpedalled from the heat and intensity behind her eyes.

"Did they take him in?" She asked, eyes hard and posture rigid. If he had x-ray vision, he would probably be able to see the blood sizzling under her skin.

"Yeah. Yeah." He stammered out. "He's in one of the interrogation rooms. Brown's heading the.." He stopped when he realised Quinn had turned her back on him and was already halfway across the room. "Where are you going"

"Just a few questions I have to ask." Quinn answered without looking back. _A man to sort out._

"Wait.."

"I suggest you stay put if you don't want to get suspended."

"Oh boy." Sam whispered under his breath, looking helplessly after his partner's retreating back.

Something about her calm scared him. It reminded him of one of the snake documentaries he had been forced to watch with his girlfriend. They always were very, very still before they struck.

Shuddering, he gathered their shared files from her table and returned to his desk. He was kind of glad that he hadn't met this Santana because if the lost look in Quinn's eyes was anything to go by, he didn't want to know what it felt like to lose her.

* * *

Quinn felt nothing as she drove through the streets of Washington Heights. It was as if she had exhausted all energy and emotion after repeatedly punching Rocky in the face. That act of violence had done nothing but earned her a two-week suspension. She couldn't say she regretted it though.

It took her almost an hour to find the place she was looking for and even then, she almost missed the sign because it wasn't lit. She pulled into one of the lots outside the place and took a deep breath to steady her shaking hands. There was only one other car parked there, a beat up Nissan that looked like it had seen better days.

She was pleasantly surprised when she entered the bar. She had been expecting something grungy but this place with its cherry wood furniture and warm lighting was homely, even if it was mostly empty.

She glanced at her watch and chuckled bitterly to herself. Twelve noon. She was eight hours early for her dinner tonight but she didn't know where else to go that wasn't home.

"Welcome to Joe's bar. I'm Joe. What can I get for you?" A beefy, middle-aged man with twinkling eyes winked at her when she sat herself down in front of the bar.

"Erm I've heard good things about your steak. Medium-rare please."

The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. "You've heard right. And what drink would you like to go with your meal?"

She opened her mouth to answer but ended up shaking her head.

"You haven't heard good things about our drinks?"

She attempted to laugh but ended up grimacing instead. "On the contrary, I've heard better things about your drinks."

In an instant, the large hands which had been wiping the bar stilled and the smile fell from his face. "You know Santana." Joe stated, jabbing a stout finger in front of her face. "She was right. I would never have made you for a cop." He said, more to himself than to her. "Sit, Quinn. You will have a drink." He proclaimed in a way that left no room for discussion, then he was gone before she could ask any questions.

He returned shortly, placing a glass of honey-coloured liquid before her.

At her questioning stare, he merely smiled in assurance. "Mint julep. Her choice. A ladies drink but enough in there to kick ass. Familiar tone?" He grinned when she perked up at the mention of Santana. "Now you wait here while I prepare your steak. We will not speak of this again." He touched his fingers to hers and very subtly sneaked a slip of paper under her palm.

She waited until he had disappeared into the kitchen. Then, very carefully and with great apprehension, she unfolded the little square of paper and read the messy scrawl on it.

 _Bitch, this drink's on me. Instructed Big Joe to add an extra shot coz you needs to loosen up your panties. Enjoy. - RC_

She stared at the note, then at the drink, then back at the note again.

"Shit. Santana." She finally whispered under her breath.

She managed a short second of laughter before she started crying, huge, wracking sobs that shook her body. She was relieved. She was heartbroken. She was elated.

Through her tears, she sampled her drink, enjoying the way the cold washed down her burning throat. It was salty, it was sweet, it was bitter.

It was perfect.

* * *

 **A/N: And that ladies and gentlemen, wraps this story up. 10 points if you can guess what RC stands for and what that means for Santana.**

 **A couple of you mentioned how there hasn't been any romantic Quinn/Santana interaction. That is correct. This is not a romance story. (Not exactly). I'm more interested in exploring what could have been. The title suggests as such. They're all ants in a large world and they do what they have to survive. On opposite ends of the law, it makes pursuing a romantic relationship difficult for either of them. That being said, whether or not they have feelings for one another is a different thing. That, I'll leave to your interpretation. That's partly why I've left the ending open :)**

 **Nevertheless, thanks for reading and I hope you've enjoyed the story as much as I've enjoyed writing it.**


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